TO me, there comes a time in leafy June
When nature calls from wood, and stream, and field,
Calls low at dawn, calls loud and clear at noon,
Calls most persuasively when stars come out
Up in the blue, and other voices hush,
And Come! I hear her say, come out with me,
Come leave the low cramped rooms, the weary task,
Come take the path through meadow, and through wood,
Climb up the breezy hills and look abroad,
Climb down into the valleys deep and wide
And rest a space! There is no rest so full
As that which I will give you as you lie
On grassy knoll; I’ll give for lullaby
The rustle of the leaves tossed by the wind,
For covering the sunbeams meshed and snared
By waving boughs; I’ll fill your lungs with air
Made fragrant in the bowers I call my own.
Come! Come! I’ll keep you company, I have
A potion brewed, a wondrous healing thing,
Which brings forgetfulness of lurking care,
And rubs out from the mind the memory
Of loss, of striving and defeat—Come! Come!

I went, I left the city far behind,
I went because she called—my fair first love!
I went at sunrise that for one full day
I might be with her, thrill beneath her touch
As in the long ago when she did claim
The full affection of my untried youth.

O freshness, living freshness of a day
In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight
And not a stain of wear shows on the grass
Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,
“Our day of loveliness is past and gone!”
I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,
The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks,
The wild flowers found the sunlight where they stood,
And some hid their white faces quite away,
While others lifted up their starry eyes
And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze,
I revelled in the grandeur and the strength
Of towering trunks, and great wide-spreading limbs,
I revelled in the silence—far away
A noisy world I knew was waiting me,
But no sound from it reached me as I went
By tangled pathway through that wilderness.

At noon I came out to the fields, sat down
And ate my lunch with hearty appetite,
Just at the foot of a wide hill which hid
The highway quite from sight, and shut me in.

A meadow stretched itself out in the sun,
Each little blade of green did thrust its face
Up to the glow. The clover heads bent down
To let their visitors—the bees—pass out,
The heavy-footed honey bees. Ah, fond
Are they of the sweet juices stored in fragrant phials!
So fond, that in the breeze they smell them out
And straightway sally forth to taste the same,
And carry samples home. Down in the grass
A thousand insects hummed; a shallow stream
Laughed in the sunshine, speeding o’er the stones
To find the coolness of the shady wood.
The cattle laid their wide mouths to its breast
And slaked their thirst, and made their dappled sides
Swell out; then lowing forth their full content
They turned again to wade through knee-deep grass.
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flew, with a call of love and joy,
That drew from her proved mate, perched on a bough
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
An answering note, replete with tenderness,
That sent the echo of its sweetness on
Into the dim old wood. A wild-rose spread
Its greenness o’er a corner of the fence,
And hung its tinted blossoms out to grace
The lowly spot, and make of it a bower.

But fairer than the meadow or the wood—
Than wild-rose blooming by the zig-zag fence—
Than nesting bird, or softly murmuring stream—
Than cattle standing knee-deep in the grass—
Than dew-washed fern, or golden-hearted flowers—
Fairer than sunbeam’s mesh or dappled shade—
Or aught that I had seen this day of days
Was she, the glad young thing whose buoyant feet
Trod the slim path which wound its changeful way
Down the tall hill, past alders all abloom.

A girl, a young girl, is a gracious sight,
A thing to make the eye light gaily up,
We see our youth in her—the joy of youth
Smiles out at us from her white-lidded eyes,
The careless grace of youth is on her lips,
The innocence of youth shines on her brow,
The prettiness of youth is on her cheek,
Her softness is the softness of a flower,
Her brightness and her beauty have the fresh
And healthy glow of morn. Her laughter stirs
A host of memories sleeping in our heart,
And makes a present hour of some far-off,
Some dear and half-forgotten yesterday.

I wonder if the day will ever come
When we will be so old—so old and dull
That we will listen to, yet never heed
The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring
Out through this world’s big aisles—the rippling laugh
Which comes from red young lips—comes straight from some
Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled
With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?

She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown
From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun,
And presently I heard a little “Oh!”
Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed
Had caught, and held so closely that its mark
Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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